Brick
by rettevronnoc
Summary: He's pulling Mark down with him, but the filmmaker wouldn't have it any other way. [[Part II]]


**Title: **I Want to Save You  
**Summary: **((Part 2 of _What You Own_ Trilogy)) After Roger's first withdrawal, Mark realizes that he knows two Roger's...and that he loves them both.  
**Rating: **M  
**Genre: **Somewhat heavy Mark/Roger (later chapters), tiny bit of tragedy, and some good ol' humor thrown in!  
**Warnings: **Smut, cussing, drug use.  
**Authors Note: **Written while listening to Something Corporate's "I Want to Save You" and reading "Who I Am Hates Who I've Been."  
**Disclaimer: **You are what you own. But I don't own RENT. What a shame...

A/N Pt. 2: This is going to take a while to crank out (I'm planning 10 chapters) because, unlike _Who I Am Hates Who I've Been_, I don't have all of this already written. Just bear with me! The first chapter is a little fluffy, but that's how I wanted it! IF YOU HAVEN'T READ _Who I Am Hates Who I've Been, _READ IT NOW OR YOU **WILL **BE CONFUSED!

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Center Sex and New Found Glory  
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Roger smirks as he stands in front of the crowd. His fingers shake, his lips tremble.

April has made a habit to become what her name entails: spring. She's in New York, at the loft, for a few months at a time, and then, like New York weather, she's completely changed her mind and has disappeared. Right now, she's gone—been gone for a good six months. And Roger couldn't be happier.

Withdrawal with him was absolute hell. I still have bruises and scars, marks that I'm sure will never go away. Marks covering Mark.

That's poetic.

That's _pathetic_.

There's one particular scar that I'm willing to bet my life on will never leave—a very long, long scar that travels down the side of my collar bone to the deep indent of my throat. Luckily, I've got my trusty scarf to cover it up! Such a nifty scarf, it is...nifty, nifty, nifty.

Roger's been doing well. He's been off of smack, stayed away from alcohol, and started treating me like a human being again. Not only that, but he's played his guitar, written songs, gotten the old band together, and now stands in front of me at CBGB's, completely enthralling the crowd.

He's gone back to being the greatest star to grace the earth.

"Hey, Mark?"

I turn to my near-savior, eyebrows cocked. "Yeah, Collins?"

"How fast can you run?"

Two years ago I met Collins while I stumbled stupidly on the subway, trying to find my way around New York. I was scared to death of the warm, comical professor until I saw him give money to a homeless guy on the subway that had eaten my Big Mac. He said, "Hey, man. Looks like you're a little down in the dumps. How 'bout a little angel offers you something for the season, eh?" before passing the hobo a ten dollar bill. Smiling, he plopped down beside me.

"You look lost." He told me.

I nodded. "I am lost. I just got here."

Collins then educated me on how he took in strays regularly and would be glad to drag me back to his loft where there just so happened to (conveniently) be an empty room (which I later learned was "April lives here when the winds blow her this way, but she can crash with Roger if she comes back. Which she probably won't. Crazy girl…"). Later that night, I met Benny and Maureen.

Roger remembers us meeting the next morning when I yelled at him for stealing my breakfast. I had gotten so tired of people stealing my food—first the hobo, now a new roommate—that I snapped at him, "Roger, that's _my _bowl of cereal."

Wide-eyed, he set the bowl down. "How do you know my name?"

"We met last night…"

"No we didn't."

What Roger doesn't know, though, was that we had met the night before when I met Maureen and Benny. He denies this ever happened. Collins blamed it on his bad memory (which I later learned was the forgetfulness of things that you do while heroin is rushing through your body). Now I tell Roger that, yes, we did meet that morning. Never before then.

So, two years later and still living in the loft, I've seen all of us go through relationships and downfalls and happiness and sadness, but most importantly I've witnessed Collins' craziness. That is the reason I'm terrified to answer his question.

"Why?"

He gives me that lazy grin one achieves when starting to get buzzed from the joint sitting between his lips. "I was thinking about streaking through the front row. Show that crazy ass motherfucker what a real party's like."

I would laugh if I didn't believe he'd do it.

Instead I take the easy way out and order him another beer, turning my attention Roger. He licks his lips before they reach the mic, his deep, throaty, scratchy voice lamenting. I can feel my heart slow and my eyelids become hooded as the words float around in my ears, dancing around my brain until his voice is burned into it.

Roger's licked his lips a total of fifteen times tonight. I can only imagine how chapped the must be. Maybe they're as chapped as his hands, calloused not for his long hours of playing the guitar, but for his long hours of ringing his hands around the wood of our old, broken coffee table because the pain of withdrawal was unbearable. Maybe they're as chapped as the skin under his eyes, tried and tired of tears being rubbed away. Maybe as chapped as his forearm from all the hours of rubbing it when desperate for a hit.

Out with the old, in with the new. Old Roger (or, as I like to call it, Roger version 1.7) was not-so-innocent Roger. New Roger, Roger version 2.0, is good Roger. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't love both of them. 

Roger version 2.0 is the charming, creative, and passionate Roger that understands when someone needs to be left alone, they need to be left _alone_.

...But Roger version 1.7 was the Roger that looked me in the eye and said, "I'll stop. For you." Old Roger was the Roger I started having more than "friendly" feelings for. The Roger that returned those more than "friendly" feelings immediately.

New Roger is the one that _still _returns those feelings. The one that still nuzzles into my neck at night, purring as he falls asleep. The Roger that kisses me mid-sentence, just "because."

Both of these Roger's come into my room at night to check and make sure that I haven't left. Both don't want me to leave.

And I'll never leave either one of them.

Collins laughs and stumbles into the crowd as I wind my camera and film. "Roger's face comes into view as I realize that I can't live without you."


End file.
